


all that's dead and gone and passed

by RhineGold



Series: darling, everything's on fire [1]
Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: (sort of), Alternate Universe - The Enchanted Forest (Once Upon a Time), Bae is 16, Fantasy World-Building, He is Not the One Who is Raped, M/M, Mutilation, Physical Abuse, Rumpelstiltskin Never Became the Dark One, unknowing incest
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:47:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,824
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29752218
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RhineGold/pseuds/RhineGold
Summary: Careful to keep his posture good and his head high, he dismounted with the grace of a well-trained gentleman. Deblin Keep had taught him well, and he cut a fine figure in the expensive clothes his father had sent.To his disappointment, the show was not entirely successful, in that his father did not wait in the yard. Instead, a retinue of servants stepped up, seeing to the baggage and horses. He relinquished his reins without a second glance at the boy who appeared behind him, instead finding his gaze drawn to the only figure who hadn't moved."My father?" He said finally, barking more forcefully than he'd intended. His father had sent aslave.
Relationships: Baelfire | Neal Cassidy/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold, Hordor/Rumplestiltskin | Mr. Gold
Series: darling, everything's on fire [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2192058
Comments: 10
Kudos: 4





	1. Fire

The world burned. 

He choked on the thick fumes, tears streaming from his eyes as he continued to crawl. One arm, bent, elbow bleeding, scraped raw, fingers clawing at the dirt. One arm and then the other. His leg dragged behind him, foot catching on something he didn't want to see. Flesh tore, blood spraying, but it was not his own this time. He continued to crawl. 

Somewhere the screaming continued. His ears rang with it. His eyes swam with the heat as he inched his way closer to the flames. Every instinct he possessed screamed at him, pleading with him to turn, to flee, to give up. But he could hear it. The perfect, pitched wail of an infant.

He crawled. 

He found her in the dirt, curled around the crying babe. Her arms shook with the effort of holding herself up, off of him. There was simply too much blood. 

"You take him," She spat and more blood came with it. Their son wailed again. "Don't let them hurt him," Her voice was like rust. 

Their hands met as she collapsed to one side. Around him the fire roared, echoed by a brute of a man who thundered past. It seemed he would pass by, would not see them there in the burning wood and the dirt. But he returned, kicking her shoulder with his boot. She rolled, unresisting onto her back. 

He bent to see her face. She stared sightlessly at the haze over their heads. And the baby wailed.

The man swiveled, slowly, from the waist, in a movement only made more predatory by its lack of speed. "Her child?" He growled. If her voice had been rust, this was blood. 

Finally, he nodded. The man smiled. Around them, ashes fell like snow. 

~*~


	2. Madderas

Dirt went kicking up from the force of the boy's stride. He dug his heels in, leaping into the air with every few steps. Today, he would become a man. Today, he would see his father, at last, and this time, there would be no more parting. This time, he would be kept, be needed. Today, he would be wanted. 

He had waited for this day for the last sixteen years.

Abruptly, a staff shot out at the last moment as he careened around the corner that would carry him into the courtyard. He yelped as the wooden beam struck him across the knees, sending him flipping over it and into a tangle of adolescent limbs. 

"Passably met, Young Master," The man said, but his voice was warm and there was a twinkle in those bright eyes. 

Magister Grimalkin had been the Duke's envoy to these parts since he could remember, longer than he had lived here in Deblin Keep. He had been the one to bring him from the children's quarters in the next valley when he had come of age for a young lord's training, and had been the one to bring word and gifts from his father each season. 

"You'll need to show more restraint around your father," the man admonished, reaching down to help him to his feet. For his age, he was surprisingly strong, something that always secretly pleased the boy. He knew his father valued strength above all things. 

"Forgive me," He said, feeling young and foolish. He was a man, not a boy, after all. Tossing his brown curls from his eyes, he lifted his head and met the man's bright blue eyes. "I will show more control."

Grimalkin studied him for a long moment, eyes serious, mouth downturned. Finally, he smiled faintly, lip curling in an expression that carried more fondness than amusement. "Very well," He said at last. "Come. Madderas awaits."

~*~

Madderas. He had heard of the mighty fortress town his entire life - studied blueprints and memorized tales told by passing visitors who had seen it, or even dwelt within its walls. 

The Frontlands were were a land at war, and the capital reflected this. High on the tallest peak, the Duke's castle scraped the skies, but it was Madderas that protected this jewel. Situated at Mount Glorian's base, Madderas straddled two rivers - Eruthi, flowing down from the mountains, and Ramblegas, cutting across the wide plains. 

In the center of the sprawling town, the land's nobility and most elite made their homes and broke their bread, protected always by the Duke's Steward, his most trusted commander. His father. 

Careful to keep his posture good and his head high, he dismounted with the grace of a well-trained gentleman. Deblin Keep had taught him well, and he cut a fine figure in the expensive clothes his father had sent. 

To his disappointment, the show was not entirely successful, in that his father did not wait in the yard. Instead, a retinue of servants stepped up, seeing to the baggage and horses. He relinquished his reins without a second glance at the boy who appeared behind him, instead finding his gaze drawn to the only figure who hadn't moved. 

He was not a young man, but there still clung a sort of youthfulness to his face. His build was slight and he leaned on the staff he held with too much deliberateness for it to be anything but a walking staff. A cripple, in his father's court? It surprised him enough that he would have examined the man with intense scrutiny even if he had not felt oddly drawn to him already. 

The man offered him a smile that was simultaneously exhausted and elated. The overall effect seemed chokingly sad. As he approached, he raised his hand, making to shake his, when two things happened. The man flinched visibly, stepping back with an expression of startlement that turned to a grimace as his right leg protested heavily. And he noticed at last the cuffs on each of the man's wrists - a soft, burnished bronze - that marked the man as a slave. The boy recognized his own family crest. 

His father had sent a slave to greet him. It stung him like a blow and sour disappointment surged through him at the realization that this was not a freedman. He couldn't say why he cared. 

"My father?" He said finally, barking more forcefully than he'd intended. His father had sent a /slave/. 

"My lord remains in the warroom with the governor of the Marchlands. He is unable to leave at this moment and... and sends his regrets."

The boy sincerely doubted his father had added that last part, but it was a nice gesture all the same. 

"Take me there."

"He wished me to escort you to your..."

"Take me there." He repeated firmly, hoping this was the right choice. His father's letters had always counselled boldness. It was time to test that.

~*~

The warroom, large and ornate, was clearly a space meant to be used often, but also to impress. His father stood at the center of a large table, surrounded by other men in various colours of armor and robes. On the table, small metal pieces represented different topographical and man-made structures, laying out the battle lines and the vally beyond.

The man across from his father wore the crest of the Marchlands on his cloak, and his impressively solid face meant he was probably someone of import. 

"I still do not see why the Duke himself cannot attend these meetings," He said coldly, pompously drawing himself up to his full height. 

His father still dominated the room, wide and sturdy, tall and strong. Not much like his thin, lithe son, the boy thought to himself.

"The Duke has other concerns at the moment. He has asked that I entertain you as my guests here at Maddaras until such time as he can accommodate you."

"Pha," the man, who could only be the Duke of the Marchlands himself, spat at the table, his saliva landing on the polished surface and lingering in a white, foamy streak. "The Duke has not entertained in 17 years."

"It is no small business to run a war," His father said evenly, staring at the tabletop, obviously just shy of enraged. He looked up then and scowled when he spotted the pair of them in the doorway.

"I told you to take him to his rooms," He snapped at the slave, and the man cowered back, hiding himself behind his staff, as though braced for a blow even from across the room. 

"I came with the message you requested, Father," he said, making his voice loud and clear. Approaching the table, he bowed slightly to the duke, and came to stand at his father's right hand. "The duke of the Farlands has agreed to send 10,000 men to the front - 5,000 cavalry and the rest as foot soldiers," he lied.

"Then you have no need of my men," the Duke snapped.

"If you cannot match that many men, my Lord, I'm certain everyone here would understand," he said sweetly, "After all, it is hard to rein in one's subjects to create a standing army."

The Duke turned bright red, a purple splotch standing out particularly on his forehead. "Fine," he snarled, flinging his hand out to upset some of the figurines with the sleeve of his robe. "You'll have your men and a cluster of archers besides. I will not be outdone by someone from a duchy as small as the Farlands."

"Very well," His father said severely, reaching across the vast table with one hand outstretched. 

The Duke had to reach to grasp his hand, clearly biting back a gasp at the ferocity of the grip. "It is decided."

"And so it is," the Steward agreed.

As the men prepare to depart, he gestured his son closer, clapping that strong grip across his shoulders, pulling him flush against his side. "That was a gutsy bluff, my son," He commented, looking him over as he let him go. "Baelfire," he barked the name like a command, "Never do anything like that again."

"Yes, Father," He said, careful to keep his voice proud. It would not do to show his nervousness and anxiety and spoil this clever, powerful visage he carefully created. 

"Now, Rumpelstiltskin!" The Steward snapped, making the small man in the doorway jump. "Show my son to his rooms, and return to me."

~*~


	3. Passage

At the dinner feast, he was sat at his father's right hand, the position of honor and distinction. He smiled with the power of it, feeling every inch a king, despite the fact that his father was truly the one with all of the command here. 

His father was a large, powerful man, black hair receding into a triangle shape, and he wore his black studded armor like the warlord he was. His beard covered the lower part of his face, a hint of grey marring the black. Once again, he wondered what his mother must have looked like, to make him so thin and willowy compared to the mountain of stability and power that was his father. She must have had brown hair and eyes, he decided, because he did not find his own looks in his father's face.

To his surprise, Magister Grimalkin sat on his father's left side. He had not expected his mentor and teacher to have left Deblin Keep and come here to Madderas. It occurred to him that perhaps the master had been at Deblin Keep, not to train all of the others, but himself alone. He could not deny the pride this exalted him with - to have a master as formidable and stalwart as Grimalkin, all for himself. What a gift from his father! 

He did not know why it troubled him that the thin, cowardly slave, Rumpelstiltskin, his father had named him, was not present at the feast.

~*~

The rooms he had been given were small and narrow, like much of the castle, but there were rich tapestries on the wall and a fine red coverlet on the bed, bearing the crest of the Frontlands. A cheerful fire burned in the large hearth, making the room feel cozy instead of cramped. His clothes and books had been brought in by servants and put away, he noted, though he would have to rearrange some of the things himself to have them to his liking. 

He lay down across the coverlet and sighed. It had been a long day, riding all the way across the valleys and down to the keep. Deblin Keep sat far from the capital city, to better protect the young cadets learning the ways of knighthood. It just made it exhausting to travel between them. The mead from the feast called him into slumber, and he found himself suddenly bone tired and unable to even remove his own boots. Tugging part of the coverlet over himself, not even bothering to fully slide beneath it, he fell fast asleep.

~*~

It was not yet dawn when he awoke. He lay as he had when he retired, half-wrapped in the coverlet and half-off the bed. He suddenly felt grimy from his journey and it inspired him to get to his feet and move to the water basin across the room. 

Splashing water on his face, he listened to the nighttime sounds of his new home - the creak of wood from somewhere below, the sweep of wind across stone, and the far-off sounds of horses neighing and stamping in the nearby stables. 

Suddenly he became aware of a draft, surprised by the way the torches swayed and guttered in the breeze. The exterior wall looked solid, the only window paned with expensive glass. He turned, searching along the other walls, looking for something to explain the mysterious activities of the torches.

He found the passage with little effort, hidden away under one of the large tapestries. It was a narrow passage, one dark and cold without the warmth of the room's fire. He took a torch from one of the wall sconces, careful not to hold it too close to the tapestry as he moved into the space. For a large man, it would be a tight squeeze, but he could move easily given the slenderness of his shoulders. 

As he walked down the passage way, he listened carefully for any sounds beyond the usual, wondering where the stone hallway led. Halfway through his journey, he realized he must be along side his father's own rooms by now - perhaps the passage ended there, an escape route for the castle's lord in case of emergencies. 

He came up short as a decorative stone grate suddenly opened to his left, cutting into the passageway and shining torchlight into the space. He doused his own torch on the floor and peered into the room. 

It was his father's bedchamber, made up magnificently in rich fabrics and leathers. Weapons lined the walls, conquests and trophies, and the bedframe was one large enough to contain a man twice his father's side. 

And his father was not alone within it.

His father sat back on his heels, obviously intimately coupled to the body beneath him, a stretch of long, slender back, ending in a length of soft brown hair, silvery streaks catching in the torchlight and shining like spun spider silk. He realized with a start that it was the slave, Rumpelstiltskin, lying beneath his father, pressing his face into his crossed arms, moaning and sobbing as he was taken roughly. 

There was nothing gentle about his father's embrace, and the sound of the small man's sobs filled the stone room and seemed to echo and multiply in volume. He could hear his father, too, grunting and snarling with the effort of his thrusts. He was speaking intermittently, voice gravelly and low, rough as sandpaper.

"Did you see him, Rumpelstiltskin?" He asked, voice mocking and cold. "Did you see his eyes when he did not know you? See his face when he looked at you with disgust?" This made the man beneath him cry harder, his shoulders and hips shaking with the force of it, making his father grip his narrow hips in both hands, squeezing with bruising force. "Look at you," He continued, still clearly enjoying the other man's pain. "A slave whose only skills are fucking and whimpering like a sniveling woman. If she could see you now, Rumpelstiltskin, see what you've become..."

"Stop, please!" The man cried, voice choked with anguish.

"But you know it's true..." He crooned, his thrusts slowing somewhat as he rolled his hips, forcing a groan from the other man's lips. "You're nothing, Rumpelstiltskin. Absolutely nothing. And everyone you've ever loved is lost to you in every way. I've taken all that from you at last."

"He's still my... still my..." He tried to choke out more words, but the man inside him had brutally resumed his thrusts, breaking up his ability to speak clearly.

As his father came, his draped himself over the smaller man's back, hissing in his ear, "He's _mine_ now, Rumpelstiltskin. _Mine_."

Having seen enough, he turned and blindly made his way down the passageway, back to the brightness and warmth of his rooms, trying to comprehend what he'd seen.

~*~


	4. Well Met

He didn't think he could ever sleep after the things he had seen, but sleep he had, as he woke to the sound of birds flittering outside the window, sun streaking in the thick, glazed glass. 

It was only once he had sat up and looked around that he realized he was not alone in the room. 

The slave, Rumpelstiltskin, stood by the hearth, stoking it intermittently, looking as though he were doing it, not to keep the fire up, but rather, just to have something to do. 

"What are you doing in here?" He blurted, voice sounding colder than he intended, still thick and heavy with sleep. 

"...Your father asked that I take you to tour the keep today," He said quietly, looking down at the floor instead of at the boy. 

"How am I supposed to keep pace with a cripple?" He demanded, annoyed that again, something he had wished for his father to do had been regulated to this rather pathetic-looking slave.

"I'm sorry," The man whispered, looking like he was about to crumple into tears around his walking staff. 

"I want my father," he demanded imperiously.

"I'm sorry, Master Baelfire, but he is locked within the warroom today and has ordered no audiences."

It was only then that he noticed the purpling marks on the slave's face and throat. Had his father done that? During the night, when they had been... He had never imagined his father was interested in having intimacy with men, but then, with slaves, it could be understood that a lord might take his pleasure, regardless of their sex. Something about it with this man struck him as distasteful, though he couldn't decide why. Perhaps it was the way he sniveled and groveled. Unmanly, he decided, unfit for his father's court. A slave should be as strong as his master, he thought. 

He studied the man for a long time, looking for signs of strength in the man's face. He wasn't an ugly creature, fine bones and a pleasing mouth, though his nose had an unusual shape and his teeth were crooked when he opened his mouth. Still, he wasn't unpleasant to look upon, if not exactly fair. 

His eyes, though, were what captured him the most. Dark brown and wide, the man had beautiful eyes. He was reminded of someone when he looked into those eyes, but he could not, for the life of him, determine what it was. Familiarity? No, that couldn't be it. Mentally, he shrugged it off.

He thought back to the night-time conversation his father had nearly spat at the man. When who had looked at him with disgust? Who was his now and what did that mean? He wondered if he could work up the courage to ask. He could probably bully the slave into answering, but his father might find out about his inquiry and be displeased. He did not want to spoil the good foot he had seemingly landed on with the man. 

The slave wrung his hands against the staff, making his leather cuffs slip along thin wrists. Overall, he was really too thin. He wasn't sure why exactly he cared. He supposed it said something about his father's opulence, or lack thereof, to have a slave that thin. But then again, perhaps his father preferred that sort of thing, since, after all, this Rumpelstiltskin was truly some sort of bed slave.

"You look so much like your mother," the man said, breaking the silence, voice wistful and quiet.

The boy's head shot up and he stared at the man, shocked. "You knew my mother?" He asked, unable to keep the excitement from his voice.

"Once upon a time," he replied, voice carrying the weight of sorrow behind it. "She was a beautiful woman."

"No one has ever told me anything about her." He said, reaching out to set both hands on the other man's shoulders. Rumpelstiltskin recoiled somewhat, but settled when the touch was gentle, if a little excited. "Did she really look like me?"

"You have her hair and her nose. She was petite and lovely as the day is long," He replied, the sadness undercut with something else. Remorse? Longing? Suddenly he realized what it must be.

"You loved my mother," He said, stunned.

"...That I did," He answered, expression far away. 

His father's voice rose up in his mind suddenly: _"Everyone you've ever loved is lost to you in every way. I've taken all that from you at last..."_

"She loved you more than anything," He added quietly. "More than anything in this world."

He let go of him suddenly, breaking off, confused. "...My mother died when I was born."

Rumpelstiltskin looked surprised himself for a moment and then nodded quickly. "Yes, yes, of course. I only meant when she was with child. Of course."

"...Of course." He said slowly. 

"Shall we tour the keep?" He asked, trying to sound bright and happy and failing miserably. 

"Not today," He said, shaking his mass of curls. "...There's something I have to do."

~*~

During his searching, he found his own way around the keep, discovering the kitchens, the stables, the guest quarters, and the way to the servants quarters. There was also a library, the warroom, of course, and the great hall. Still, he did not find Magister Grimalkin anywhere, and realized sadly that the man may very well be shut up with his father in the warroom. 

After hours of wandering, he found himself loitering outside the garden near the room of interest, and was surprised out of his reverie when he heard his father call his name. Turning around, he saw they were quite close together. 

"Come here, son," He said, conspiratorially leaning in and touching him on one shoulder. His large paw of a hand took up the entire thing, the boy realized. "After the dinner is served, meet me in my quarters. I have something I would like to share with you. Call it... a gift to celebrate your coming of age. I'm sure you'll like it." He smiled, and the boy smiled back, but his contained less teeth. He nodded in agreement and his father withdrew his hand. "Well met, son," He added, before sauntering away.

~*~


	5. Gifts

He stood, shifting from foot to foot in nervousness, wondering what could be within his father's chambers that could be of any interest to him. Would it be a sword? Armor? Some kind of ceremony to initiate him into his father's inner circle. 

Finally, his father opened both of the doors, pressing them wide at the same time, revealing the sitting room of his chamber. "Well met," he said again, and he could tell now that his father was drunk. "I have a surprise for you, son..." He ushered him into the sitting room, grinning from ear to ear. "When I was your age, my father did the same for me. It wasn't as special as this is going to be, since I was old hat by then, but Grimalkin tells me you have been more... prudent in such matters."

He couldn't understand what his father was talking about, but he tried his best to look as though he was keeping up with the conversation, nodding.

"It is the right of a lord to show his might from time to time, and it is time that you show yours. Your gift is within the chamber. You should know what to do. There is oil on the stand to your right. I know you will not fail me in this, my son," He said, pawing at his shoulder again. "Be a good lord and show your might."

Baelfire opened the door into his father's bedchamber and saw exactly what he was afraid he might - Rumpelstiltskin seated on the edge of the bed, facing away, wearing only a simple white shift. He knew then what he had been sent to the room to do, or rather, whom.

~*~

Rumpelstiltskin jumped when the doors closed, but he did not turn around. His hair covered his face, showing the back of his neck just above the shift's collar. 

Blushing suddenly, the boy cleared his throat. It was true that he had never done anything like this before, but he knew that this was far from Rumpelstiltskin's first time in this position. He'd seen it himself the night before. 

When he cleared his throat, Rumpelstiltskin whirled, hair spinning with him, and the colour drained from his face. "No, please," He whispered softly, and he got off of the bed and fumbled for his walking staff.

"Please get back onto the bed," he said, trying to sound as authoritative as his father, knowing he was failing. 

"I can't do this," he replied, backing up until he was near the far wall. "I can't... No, please, not this."

Baelfire backed up too, surprised by the sudden outburst from the man, and he found himself pressing against the door, pushing it open slightly. His father came swiftly to the door and opened it abruptly, almost making him stumble. 

"What is the problem here?" He demanded, sounding angrier than the boy had ever heard him.

He looked over to where the slave cowered against the wall, hiding behind his staff as though that could protect him. "He doesn't... He doesn't want to..." 

"It doesn't matter what he wants. He's a slave. You're a master. Take it from him if it is not freely given."

The boy shook his head, feeling confused. His father was asking, no, ordering him to commit rape against the other man. He recalled the way they had been coupled the night he spied on them - Rumpelstiltskin on his stomach, weeping into his arms as his father mounted him like a beast. This was his father's way - rape. He knew a lord had to be commanding, a lord must always reach down deep and plunder. But he never considered having to do these things himself. Magister Grimalkin's training had never prepared him for this. 

"Leave the room, boy," His father demanded. "I need a moment alone with this slave."

Doing as he was told, Baelfire fled the room. 

He listened at the thick, wooden door, but all he could hear was the sharp tone of his father's voice and one small sound that was probably a scream. He could only guess what punishment was being mete out to Rumpelstiltskin for his failure to comply with his father's wishes. 

Finally, his father opened the door again, motioning him inside. "He's ready. I will stand and watch this, to make certain it is done, and done properly. This is your time to become a man, Baelfire. Don't squander it."

Rumpelstiltskin stood by the bed now, a fresh, red mark marring the side of his face. It turned the already fading bruises a red-sprinkled purple, making him look even worse for wear. He stood his ground, however, when Baelfire approached the bed. His father drifted to the corner of the room, where a leather-hide chair waited and sat down upon it.

"...Get on the bed," The boy commanded, trying to make his voice sound strong and not confused and overwhelmed. To be expected to do this, and in front of his father at that, felt so embarrassing and difficult that he wondered if he'd be able to go through with it. 

Rumpelstiltskin leaned his staff against the bedside table and climbed, oh-so carefully, to kneel on the bed, listing to the left side to keep the weight off his bad leg. "...Which way?" He whispered, voice sounding hoarse. 

Deciding to copy his father's movements, he gestured him onto his stomach. He knew what to do in theory, he'd grown up with a class full of boys, after all, and some of them had been content to do the things with one another that were usually reserved for women. It was easier and safer, not risking disease from the prostitutes who gathered where many males could be found. 

He pushed up the white shift Rumpelstiltskin wore revealing a taut backside and a nicely curved back. His leg muscles stood strong as though he were holding them taut, which, he supposed, he was, to keep his bad leg from taking too much weight. All-in-all, he was a pleasing picture and the boy felt himself stir in appreciation. He had cared for himself many times during his long nights in Deblin Keep, but the idea of holding and taking actual flesh excited him. His father was right - this would make him a man at last.

Reaching a hand to dip it into the oil on the bedside table, he coated his fingers, gently petting out to touch the slave at his entrance. Shivering, Rumpelstiltskin buried his face in the pillows, biting back a sound of panic or fear. 

The first finger slid in gently and it made the man groan. Baelfire worked it around for a moment, until he was content that he was beginning to penetrate the man's muscles. The second finger pushed beyond the second ring of muscle, opening him further. He spread his fingers, and Rumpelstiltskin choked on another sound, keeping his face hidden. Baelfire wished suddenly he'd ordered him to lie on his back, so he could see that nicely shaped face and those gorgeous eyes. Next time, he told himself, certain now that there would be a next time. He would beg his father if necessary to experience this again. 

Deciding he was ready, the boy removed his fingers, and reached for his tunic, casting it over his head, revealing his torso. His trousers came next, pushed down around his hips. He tried to be gentle as he pressed himself against the man beneath him, but Rumpelstiltskin still let out a small scream when he was penetrated. It didn't take much force to press into him fully, and he paused for a moment, freezing his hips, trying to stop from coming immediately from the hot, clinging flesh of another person at long last. 

Once he had control of himself, he made an experimental thrust. Though he was trying not to hurt the slave, Rumpelstiltskin was weeping heavily into his arms again, keeping his face buried in the pillows as though overcome with shame. He felt delicious though, and Baelfire gloried in the sensations threatening to overwhelm him. He heard his father grunt approvingly from behind him, and then the sound of the door opening and closing - he must have been satisfied that his son would successfully continue from here. 

And continue he did - his thrusts were soft and gentle at first, but they built in intensity until he was certain he must be hurting Rumpelstiltskin somewhat as he gave soft cries every time he sank inside. He reached around the man's body, recalling the way the boys in the dormitory would behave. 

Instead of an organ like his own, when he reached around, he found only empty air...? Slowing his thrusts, he pulled out, making Rumpelstiltskin groan. Gathering his left leg in one hand, he pushed it upwards until he could turn the man onto his back and settle himself between his legs. What he saw there stunned him.

Rumpelstiltskin had no organ, no manhood, no penis. The scars on his lower body spoke of a brutal kind of castrating that left nothing behind but the marks where his manhood had been. Stunned, Baelfire ran his hand over those scars, feeling the slit where the man must have to make water. All in all, the work was neatly done, but the scars and the terrible act itself were overwhelming. 

"What happened to you?" He asked breathlessly. 

Rumpelstiltskin hid his face behind his hands, face burning in shame as he whimpered. "Hordor... M-m-master Hordor... He... It was to shame me, to brand me as... as... as nothing. Not a man... Nothing."

Overwhelmed by the cruelty his father had visited upon this wretched creature, he reached down to touch, feather-light against the scars. Rumpelstiltskin reacted immediately, jerking away from him and letting out a soft, breathy cry. Once again, Baelfire touched him there, and once again came the same, breathless moan. It seemed the tissue was still sensitive and he wondered if it was hurting the man. But the tenor of his cries spoke of arousal and not pain, so he continued in his quest to produce those sounds. Rumpelstiltskin continued to moan, twisting his hips from side to side and Baelfire wondered suddenly if his father ever did this to the man. It seemed alien, he thought, that his masculine, demanding father would take the time for another's pleasure. And so he continued, determined to give the slave this, even if it somehow degraded himself as a man. It seemed only fair given the tortures that had been visited upon him. He had no illusion that this was anything but rape still, but at least the other man would gain some pleasure from it.

His arousal renewed as he continued, and he leaned down suddenly to kiss at that scarred tissue, making Rumpelstiltskin positively squeak with stunned pleasure. He continued his kisses, and when his wet lips traced those scars, he almost came just from the sounds the slave made above him. 

Reaching a hand between his legs, he found his passage still slick and inviting, so he twisted the man's hips, lifting them suddenly, making Rumpelstiltskin cry out in surprise as he was swiftly and abruptly breached once more, split open by Baelfire's manhood. 

He rode into him, forgetting to brush and touch those scars as his instincts took over, making him thrust harder and clutch at the man's shoulders. Rumpelstiltskin began to cry again, and Baelfire was stunned by how beautiful he looked, tears wetting his lashes and pouring down his cheeks. He looked like some kind of angelic creature, sobbing his heart out at the degrading act being forced upon him. 

Baelfire did not wish to force him, he realized. He wanted to take him gently and sweetly, letting him make more of those breathy cries and moans, letting him cry tears of pleasure and happiness instead of these tears of pain and regret. But he could not be that gentle now, not his first time, when the pleasure threatened to overtake him at any moment. It seemed like no time at all that he was spilling into the other man, making him moan and struggle briefly. Baelfire held him down by his thin arms, ending any chance he had of pulling away. 

His first real orgasm spooled out of him, pulling from his hips and downwards, into a gentle stream of white, creamy strands. When he pulled himself free, he could see it leaking out of Rumpelstiltskin's hole, and he touched it experimentally, watching the way that entrance clenched and spasmed under his touch. It made him want to mount the man again, but he knew he had nothing left to give.

He met eyes with the weeping man, and he was still entranced by those tears. "What happens now?" He asked, suddenly completely uncertain. 

Rumpelstiltskin wiped at his face with one sleeve, doing little more than smearing the tears across his face, over his crooked nose and across. "Sometimes he... Sometimes he holds me...?" He said quietly, the defeat clear in his voice. 

Scooting upwards on the bed, Baelfire turned him gently onto his side and spooned up behind him. "I can do that," He whispered, burying his face into the thick, dark hair of the man before him. Rumpelstiltskin was still somewhat taller than him, but he didn't mind, holding him as though he was something fragile that might break. He smelled sweet, of herbs and fresh reeds, speaking of his other duties besides this. He was really too thin, Baelfire decided, thinking again that his father's slaves should be strong and well-fed, to match his own grandeur. But part of him reveled in being the stronger of the pair, of being able to hold so frail a creature and feel his deep breathing beneath him. Rumpelstiltskin was crying again, but Baelfire assumed this was just something that he did. 

Some time later, he heard the door open and realized he had fallen asleep. Rumpelstiltskin lay in his arms, hugged tightly to his chest. He watched the rise and fall of that thin, bird-like chest for a moment, before remembering the sound of the door. 

Slowly disentangling himself, he rose to find his father standing there, arms crossed. "He convinced you to do that, did he?" He asked, surprisingly soft, as though he didn't want to wake the sleeping slave.

"He said... He said sometimes you would do it," he replied, feeling curiously defensive, which surprised him. A son should always remain dutiful to his father, Magister Grimalkin had taught him.

"And so I do," his father replied. "He's a lovely little thing if you overlook his physical imperfections." Baelfire was surprised to heard what sounded like affection in his father's voice. Did he really care for the man?

"Now, on with you," He murmured, beginning to remove his armor. "You've done your duty; become a man. Now it's time for you to retire." 

He nodded, straightening his tunic, before passing his father. He balked when his father's arm shot out, stopping him.

"How was it?" He asked quietly.

"It was... Really nice," He decided upon finally. "Very nice."

"You'll do it again sometime," His father promised. "But now, off you go." And he propelled him towards the door before releasing him.

Baelfire hurried back to his rooms, determined to enter the secret passage again. There was more he wanted to see.

~*~


	6. Truth

By the time he made it down the passageway, without a light this time, some time had passed. He saw that Rumpelstiltskin was still sleeping and his father stood over him, just studying the lines of his face, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Rumpelstiltskin slept with his wrists curled up to his own throat, legs spread slightly to alleviate the pressure on his bad leg. He lay above the coverlet, white shift tangled up around his waist, making his deformities obvious to the casual observer now. 

Finally, he seemed to sense the eyes on him and stirred. When he saw Hordor, he bolted upright, flinching as this brought him into a sitting position. 

"You look so innocent when you sleep, boy," Hordor said fondly, reaching out to stroke his face.

To Baelfire's surprise, Rumpelstiltskin jerked away from that touch, eyes angry. "How could you?" He hissed, sounding downright furious. Baelfire was stunned that a slave would speak to his master that way, and he was not surprised when his father backhanded him across the face, knocking him to the side again.

"Here I was, prepared to treat you gently," He snarled, grabbing him by the hair and lifting him up. "You never learn, do you boy? Think you're her, do you? You'll never have her spirit."

"And you'll never have her," He spat back, even as he cringed at the grip in his hair. 

Hordor threw him across the bed, sending him sprawling onto his stomach. He unlaced his trousers and climbed in after him, settling against the headboards, yanking Rumpelstiltskin back and into his lap. The slave cried out at the treatment, and more tears smarted at his eyes. "You're a beast," he moaned, squirming his hips before gasping in shock, settling back more steadily onto the other man's lap. Baelfire realized that his father must have entered him from behind, not bothering to relubricate or stretch him. 

"I am a beast," his father replied, grinning like one as he began to thrust. Each motion lifted Rumpelstiltskin, making him cry out as he was pushed upwards and then dragged back down by the hands gripping his hips. "But what will you do about it, boy? You're nothing, nothing to anyone, and surely you've realized that by now."

"How could you?" He said again, crying this time as he continued to rise and fall with each thrust. "How could you do this? It's... it's..." 

"Beastly, isn't it?" His father chuckled. "You should have seen him holding you, like a lover, like a man with a woman. That's what he sees you as now, you know. A plaything, made for satisfaction and nothing else. He'll never respect you or love you now."

Rumpelstiltskin began to cry again, weeping sadly and loudly this time, shaking with each sob as he was continually used by the man beneath him. "He's my son..." He whispered, so quietly Baelfire scarcely heard him. The words hit him like a blow. He stood, frozen in the passageway, and suddenly, he had the urge to flee. 

Running back down the passageway, he returned to his room and flung himself onto his bed, trying to block out the things he had heard. What did this mean? What could it mean? He was the son of Hordor, Steward of the Flatlands, ruler of Madderas. Not some... some slave. 

He curled under the covers, not even bothering to change out of his clothes. His lower body felt sticky and scratchy with dried fluids but he didn't care. He wanted to shut out the world, so he wrapped himself in his blankets like an insect in a cocoon. Soon, he fell into a troubled sleep.

~*~

The next morning, Baelfire rose with a purpose. 

He washed away the night's activities, refreshed himself in the water basin, and dressed himself in fine, expensive clothes. Clothing that had been a gift from his father. His father.

Stalking through the halls, he tried to imitate his father's pace, finally seeking out a guard and demanding to be shown to his mentor's rooms. Luck was with him, and he could hear Magister Grimalkin moving about in the next room as he entered the parlor. 

"Magister!" He called, and the man himself appeared. He looked unchanged since their days at Deblin Keep, and it occurred to Baelfire that he had always remained the same older man with twinkling blue eyes, despite the years. He was stalwart and reassuring, not like the world Baelfire had suddenly found himself thrust into.

"What might this humble man do for you, Young Master?" He asked, his voice warm and kind. He gestured for Baelfire to sit across from him at a small table set under the windowsill. Warm spring air filtered in, making the room seem dreamy and calm.

Baelfire took a deep breath, before broaching a subject he had never dared before. "Tell me about my mother."

"Your mother?" The older man sounded surprised, as though he had been expecting a different question. It made him wonder how much the old man actually knew. Baelfire knew he had served in his father's household long before he had ever been born. He must know the secrets of the house, more than any other man.

"Tell me about her. I must know it." He insisted.

"Do you want the truth, Young Master, or the fiction of it?" He wondered aloud, as though actually speaking to himself.

"I want the truth!" He insisted.

"Very well," He agreed amicably. "But do not be surprised if the answers you receive this day are not the ones you were expecting."

"I must know," He repeated, planting his hands flat on the table. Thin, fine hands, he realized, not wide and thick-fingered like his father's. His father.

The master sat back in his chair, producing a pipe and some tobacco from his pockets. Carefully, he lit the flame using magic, something that never failed to impress the boy. As lazy smoke began to blend overhead with the gently, dusty sunlight, he began, speaking in his gentle, far-away voice, bringing to mind one of his lectures while schooling.

"You will recall the Peasant Rebellion some sixteen years ago," He said, referencing something every young noble had learned during their educations. "The leader of said rebellion was a young woman," He said, and this was something Baelfire had never heard. 

"She was a beauty, they say, with soft curling dark hair, and eyes as blue as the sea. I only laid eyes on her once, and that was the battle in which she died." 

Baelfire sat up very straight in his chair. "What was her name?" He asked breathlessly. 

"Milah," he replied, taking a long drag of his pipe. "Her name was Milah."

"Was she... was she..." He found he could not get the words out.

"She was your mother, Baelfire," Grimalkin replied.

His mother, a peasant, and a rebel, at that. The leader of the rebels, the one who had organized the common people to rise up against their betters. It was almost more than he could bear.

"But..." And now the final question hung from his lips, stinging his insides like a razor-sharp nettle. He felt as though there was a blade in his throat. "But how could my father have..."

"You asked for the truth, Young Master, and I am inclined to give it to you. You will not find it from many others in this place."

He froze for a moment, considering his question very carefully. Was he absolutely sure he wanted to know, that he needed to know, the answer to this line of inquiry. Finally, he sighed, bowing his head. Gathering all his strength, he sat up straight again and met the old man's bright blue eyes. "Who is my father?"

"I promised you the truth. And so I will give it to you, with no reservations. Your father, my child, is not the Steward of Madderas, as you have always been told."

"Then who is he?" He demanded intensely, not breaking eye contact.

Grimalkin took another long drag of his pipe, as though mulling something over. "Your father, my dear boy, was enslaved for his part in the Rebellion. Hordor took you, the child of Milah and this slave."

"Tell me his name!" He commanded, leaning forward, voice more breathless than he liked.

"Your father is Rumpelstiltskin."

~*~


	7. Father

Baelfire sat alone in Magister Grimalkin's study deep into the evening. He wondered if he would be missed at dinner time, or if his father - if Hordor - would even notice his absence. He could recall his first night in Madderas, feeling like a king, so haughty and disappointed in the thin, gently greying man who had been sent to greet him. 

His father.

Suddenly, his lithe, slender build made sense. The colour of his eyes, his hair, came not from his blue-eyed, darker-haired father, but from the man he'd treated with such disrespect. His father.

The weight of his cruelty weighed on him, long after Magister Grimalkin had departed. It hurt to think of the way he had treated Rumpelstiltskin - and the unspeakable things he had done to him. It was a crime, an outrage, monstrous to even consider. And yet he had done it. His fa - Hordor - had arranged it, knowing that it was unspeakable. What had Rumpelstiltskin called him? Beastly. And so it was. And so was he. 

He wanted to run, to cry, to find the slave and beg his forgiveness, but he wasn't even certain if Rumpelstiltskin would ever want to set eyes on him ever again. The thought pained him, but he realized, he would deserve it. He deserved nothing but the other man's scorn, though he wondered if he was too beaten down to offer anything of the sort. But there had been a fire in him when he had confronted Hordor the night before. There was hope that his actual father was not completely lost in the role of the slave he'd become. 

Finally, he stood resolutely, meaning to go and find the man, somehow, in the giant fortress, when the door opened. 

Carrying a scuttle of coal, Rumpelstiltskin leaned to one side as he struggled with the weight of the container and the way he leaned on his staff. He obviously did not see Baelfire standing there, and he made his way to the massive fireplace.

Gathering his courage, he took a step towards the other man, smoothing down his tunic unnecessarily in a nervous gesture. He cleared his throat and the man whipped around, staring at him with wide eyes, dropping the scuttle heavily, sending a puff of charcoal floating up around his tan coloured garments. 

He swallowed thickly. Now that he had the man's attention, he didn't know what to do with it. Baelfire opened his mouth and closed it many times. Rumpelstiltskin never moved. Finally, he decided on a word - not as formal as 'father,' a gentler word he had heard some of his friends use with their less strict fathers.

"Papa...?"

Rumpelstiltskin burst into tears.

~*~

They sat then, at the table, one across from the other. Rumpelstiltskin gently traced his fingers across the boy's wrist and palm where they lay on the tabletop. 

"Who told you?" He asked finally.

"Magister Grimalkin." He answered, surprised by the way his father recoiled at the name. 

"He knows many of the secrets of this place," He acknowledged, but something sad and pained lurked in his eyes. Baelfire decided to file that away for another time. 

He wanted to wipe those shadows and that sorrow from those wide, expressive eyes, but he didn't know how. Instead, he continued, "He told me about my mother; about how the two of you were in the Rebellion. She died there."

And the man's gaze clouded over even darker as tears smarted at the corners of his eyes. "Your mother was a good woman. Strong. Brave. She didn't want to keep sending off our people to an endless war. But they cut her down, as they do anything beautiful that grows in this place."

Shame cut through Baelfire like a knife. "About last night, I..."

He held up one hand, withdrawing across the table to sit upright fully. "Please don't..."

"I'm sorry," He blurted. "I didn't..."

"You didn't know." He said, sounding the worn-down slave again.

"I hurt you."

"No. Hordor hurt us both. You had no party in this."

"I... raped you."

"It is the right of a master to take what is his," He echoed dully, sounding like a man who had had this mantra beat into him. Baelfire knew it most likely had.

"...He said he would kill you, you know," Rumpelstiltskin said quietly. "If I didn't... If I fought you. He told me he would slit your throat instead of letting you leave."

Horrified, Baelfire reached for him, hating himself just as suddenly when Rumpelstiltskin flinched. "I'm sorry, Papa. I'm so sorry..."

"It's in the past now," He said, leaning heavily on his staff as he got to his feet. "I have to go back to my chores now. You'd do well to go on down to the Great Hall for your supper."

"I'm just supposed to leave you?!" He cried, following after him as he returned to the fireplace.

"That's exactly what you're supposed to do," He said, lowering himself gingerly to the hearth where he began to fill the crackling flame with more coal. 

"I can't do that," Baelfire cried, trying to catch him by the shoulder, jerking harder than he intended.

"What will you do then?!" He demanded sharply, that same simmering fire back in his voice. "Demand he set me free and steal away from this land?!" He held up his wrists, displaying the cuffs prominently. "I am a slave, Baelfire. No truths can dispel that."

"But..."

"You were better off not knowing," He declared, stoking the fires. "Go away. I want to be alone."

Baelfire lingered there for a moment, but Rumpelstiltskin seemed content to ignore him now. Finally, he turned and left the rooms, feeling more uneasy and hopeless than he had before Rumpelstiltskin had entered it.

~*~


End file.
